


Bodies

by Ladycat



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:10:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a body in his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bodies

There was a body in his bed.

Angel stared at it, feeling remarkably like the Papa Bear in the three bears story. Someone was sleeping in _his_ bed. The bed he’d dreamed about for the last two hours of that interminably boring meeting that Gunn had forced him to attend, two demon parties nattering and clicking and _humming_ at each other until Angel had finally snapped and told them to deal with it, now.

The demons had, in fact, dealt with it. Then. And Gunn had spent the next half an hour explaining why acting like a vampire wasn’t going to win him any points with the legal team. Angel had almost told Gunn a slight variation of what he was now terming the authority-trick, but managed to prevent himself at the last second. Gunn was not a frolox demon. Gunn would actually attempt to _hurt_ him in retaliation, instead of shrinking away and looking terrified that someone had raised their voice.

Instead, Angel had promised himself a long, luxurious afternoon of doing what a vampire _should_ do—sleep during the day. It had been an effective carrot, particularly since the moment he escaped from Gunn’s clutches, Fred had materialized to coquettishly dance around a request Angel really, truly didn’t want to know about. The entire time he’d been blocking out Fred’s lilting, stammered requests, Angel had envisioned the cool, crisp sheets that somehow retained their shape even though they were of an astronomically high thread count and should’ve turned into downy-soft much the moment they were touched. Of a mattress that gave at the right places, cradling his body with a lover’s caress everywhere else. His room, darkened to almost cave-like blackness, cocooning Angel until he could reach that perfect moment of not caring about _anything_ and letting his weary mind turn off for a while. He was tired, frustrated and fed up. He wanted to _sleep_.

There was just the aforementioned problem.

Angel didn’t realize he was growling until a sleep-heavy voice murmured, “Piss off.”

There were only two people of Angel’s close acquaintance who used the phrase ‘piss off’ without some kind of mockery attached to it. One of them was the subject of Fred’s incredibly uncomfortable question and given the way Fred had squeaked, kissed him on the cheek, and then vanished in a cloud of medicinal smelling yuck, Angel was pretty sure it _wasn’t_ Wesley in his bed. Or any where near his bed. Between Fred and Gunn, Wesley had his hands very full—

And that was an image Angel had tried so _hard_ to not think about.

“Can hear you groaning now, you fat bastard. What’re you doing over there, still, any way?” The Other One—also known as Spike—mumbled as he turned onto his other side. One pale, long arm slipped free of the covers to drape down his side, highlighting the shadowy dips and bends that outlined his body. “Thought you were tired.”

Spike was more than two thirds asleep right now, or at least he sounded that way, losing most of the consonants and sighing heavily as he spoke. His eyes were shut, long lashes curled against those incredible cheekbones of his, his mouth soft and turned down at the corners the way it only was when he was truly asleep. Or angry, Angel thought for honesty’s sake, and then wondered why the hell he cared about honesty when Spike was _sleeping in his bed_.

“Get out.” The words were spoken with a race-car engines’ revving promise.

Spike cracked a single eye open. That soft, slumbering mouth turned up into its normal smirk—but there was no heat to it. “Ponce. Stop fussing. Bed’s more’n big enough for both of us an’ I’m tired of kipping on the secretary’s couch. Got a permanent crick in my neck, feels like.” Another low, menacing growl and Spike responded by rolling onto one ‘side’ of the bed, back facing Angel. “Oh, shut it. I spent all bloody day wrestling with that demon Wesley’s doing something research-y with. I’m tired, I hurt, I need a soak but I figured violating your bed would be healthier than your precious inner sanctum of a bathroom, and you damned well know I’ll keep whining at you until you go spare. So just get in the ruddy bed and be done with it.”

Angel started stripping the moment Spike said ‘whining’, knowing that to be no idle threat at all. There was a large expanse of bed between where Spike lay and the space Angel haltingly claimed as his own—halting! In his own damned bed! Suddenly annoyed with himself, Angel spread out to his usual level of comfort, rolled onto his belly and buried his head in the pillows. He could hardly even feel Spike in the bed with him, since Spike—oddly—wasn’t breathing. Except for the barest of strains of tobacco and leather and a familiar musk in the air, Angel could believe he was truly alone.

It was a wonderful feeling.

So was the hand that slid underneath the sheets to press along the length of Angel’s spine. The pressure was just perfect, gentle fingers finding all the right spots, causing one vertebrae to pop back into place, He moaned before he realized that if there was a hand on his back, that meant that it was _Spike’s_ hand. Spike, who had claimed to merely want to sleep.

Angel sighed into the pillow. “What do you want, Spike?”

“Tosser. At least, that’s what you would be, if it wasn’t for me.”

Any moment now, Angel was going to roll over, or get up, or shove Spike’s face into a garbage disposal. Something. Except there were now two hands on his back, massaging from shoulders to the small of his back, while a surprisingly comfortable and not at all bony weight settled on the back of his thighs. It didn’t exactly _trap_ him, but moving became a far more distant possibility.

“What’re you doing?”

“You asking the pillow or are you askin’ me?” One hand left on his back for balance, Spike leaned forward and picked something off the mahogany headboard. There was a _snap_ and then the totally inelegant sound of liquid and air being pushed through plastic. Wet flesh rubbed together and then—

“Cold!”

Spike shoved him back down into the mattress, hard enough that he bounced slightly, and pushed the rest of his finger inside of Angel’s body. “You’re a mess. Charlie told me he was worried about lettin’ you near today’s delegation, afraid you’d do something stupid like snap at them.”

Angel thought very deeply about objecting to Spike having one—now two—fingers buried deep in his own arse. Then he thought about how good it felt to have his prostate touched, and the way light flickered in jagged patterns in the darkness behind his eyelids. “Well, it _worked_ ,” he said, sulky.

“Christ. Sure, it worked, Angel, but it’s not exactly the diplomatic message we want to send! Didn’t you listen to what Wes was blathering on about, yesterday’s meeting?”

Three fingers, now, and Angel spread his legs to give Spike more room to work. “There’s something deeply wrong that you both attended and remember the salient points of that meeting.”

“And worse that you didn’t even _notice_ me. You’ve got your head so far up here—” three fingers wiggled enough to make Angel gasp—“that you aren’t seeing much beyond your own bloody colon.”

“Ew.”

“Shut up. This isn’t supposed to be nice.” Spike sounded deeply frustrated and annoyed, but the movements inside Angel’s body were slow and careful, thoroughly stretching him and adding several applications of lube or lotion or whatever it was until Angel felt like he was going to drown in the scentless stuff. Spike was breathing again, too, harsh, forceful exhalations that brushed against Angel’s back.

Angel understood at almost the same moment Spike slid his cock inside him.

It wasn’t gentle, the way Spike’s fingers had been. That had almost been a continuation of the back massage, albeit in a very different place. This was rough, each thrust deep and hard enough that it was almost painful, rocking Angel into the mattress. Spike grunted with each sharp jab, ostensibly not focusing on Angel’s enjoyment in favor of pounding into Angel’s body strictly for his own. “Up,” he barked, wrapping an arm around Angel’s middle as they both clambered to their kneels, Angel’s weight on his hands, back arched into an instinctively perfect angle. “Good,” Spike told him—and started fucking him harder.

It was perfect. Angel lost himself in the almost vicious back and forth sawing, striking his prostate every time. Both of them were snarling with each frantic breath they took, the bed shuddering as Spike tapped into the power a mortal couldn’t have matched, let alone take. Angel bucked back to meet each thrust, his own cock hard and already slick with need, growing harder with every thrust.

Angel buried his face into the bed, not caring when his fangs tore his expensive, perfect sheets because Spike fucking him was worth every single penny he’d spent for the first set, and every one he’d spend on the new set he was going to have to buy. Or maybe he just won’t buy such expensive sheets.

“Bastard,” Spike panted as he slammed into Angel again and again. “Arrogant, self-centered, stubborn, brooding fuck of a _bastard_.”

Angel cried out when he felt Spike begin to come, grateful because Spike didn’t _stop_ fucking him until Angel stiffened and stained the sheets he was definitely not replacing with something as expensive.

Breathing like bellows, Spike slumped against Angel’s back, pushing him down against the bed with a muffled ooph. Angel grunted and tried to roll out from under him—for a scrawny thing, Spike could take up a surprising amount of space and be totally unmoveable, when he wanted. Like a cat. “Spike, it’s wet. And cold.”

Sprawled over him, Spike thumped the back of his head. “Stop moving. I don’t care. Tired. Good shag, better sleep.”

The disjointed sentences _weren’t_ because Spike was as tired as he claimed. Angel knew that and softened, no longer noticing the way clammy, cold come dried against his belly. Years ago, if this had happened at all, Angel would have been the one driving and he would have taken Spike in his arms, afterwards—to trap him, but to complete the ritual both of them privately knew they needed.

Now, Angel moved his hand so that it rested against Spike’s, pinky pressed against a smooth, un-callused palm. Spike made an irritated noise, flattening his hand down so that he almost, if one squinted and was entirely too liberal with certain verbs, appeared to be holding Angel’s hand.

“Just go to sleep, Angel. Or are you going to toss and turn all night, like the brooding freak you are?”

“No,” Angel said, finally sleepy the way he hadn’t been in weeks. “I’ll sleep.”

As his eyes closed, Angel grudgingly acknowledged that he needed to do something for Spike. It wasn’t right, that Spike worried about and took care of Angel. That went against the natural order of things and created a sensation that Angel almost wanted to call warm and fuzzy under his breastbone. That just couldn’t continue—particularly since Spike looked like he was losing weight, and even though he was still annoying Angel, he seemed permanently grumpy now, something Spike hardly ever _really_ was and ... and he’d think about it more after he woke up.

Speaking of: “Don’ leave.”

Spike muttered a curse. “Shut up.”

“Mean it, Spike. Don’t leave i’ the morning.”

“Is that—oh, fuck you,” Spike said, sound disgruntled and sincerely put out. Except he pulled the blankets over both of them, snuggling closer so Angel’s back, with his head pillowed on the gryphon tattoo. His breathing was slow and even and Angel let it lull him into sleep.


End file.
